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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140947">The Silk Road</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza'>aldonza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Experimental Style, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pharoga - Freeform, Reincarnation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:08:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps Nijni-Novgorod reminded him of the bazaars in Tehran, but he could not shake the memory of desert heat and something more. They had met, once before. </p><p>(Or, the pharoga reincarnation AU)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Silk Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I couldn't resist the itch of writing another pharoga one-shot. This one starts out a bit oddly, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! It's not angsty enough to be #angst or fluffy enough to be #fluff so I'll just settle for calling this one a Romance in the simplest sense.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>670 AD</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For countless days, Babak saw nothing but desert and sky, the camel his one companion on the path east. When the sun was highest, it drowned their shadows out, a sea of rock and white beneath their feet. Come night, the desert was as cold as twilight sea, but ever dry and just as vast. Babak much preferred early dawn, just before the sun fully rose-- it was cool enough then, not deathly cold nor scorching red. And always, he watched the world through the scarves around his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That fabric kept the dust and sand from washing through his lungs. There was enough sand on his tongue, the taste of stale bread and water all that mingled in his mouth since his journey began. Babak had never been a gluttonous man-- but now he dreamt of lamb and mint and all that he’d taken for granted on the table he’d once called his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when his water had finally run out, the bridge of his nose singed by sun, his bread turned to crumbs-- Babak thought himself lost. He would die in the desert on this path to nowhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hya! Hya!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snap of the crop brought him back around. A dozen so horses stampeded past where he stood, their master spurring them on as they pulled wagons of pots and pans. He shook his head. No, finely crafted pots- meant to be gazed at, if not used. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed the camel’s reins and urged it on. He followed those horses and soon, found himself behind caravans of all sizes and shapes. Camels, horses, and tens of goats filed in front, blobs of cloth and skin shimmering in the crowd around. And the noise was like thunder cutting through wind. Babak had gone so long without so much as another’s breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he heard a thousand or so voices mingling at once, tongues in the hundred whilst their beasts bleated and neighed. Wheels rolled past rock and grain, tarps and carpets and coins dancing about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled the scarf down, piqued by the scent of cooked meat and spices in jars. And in the midst of all these shoulders- heads of black and brown and touches of gold, caps and hats and helmets, and glimpses of veils- he did not know where to move. The east had become west and south became north. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had reached the silk road and it stretched for miles down, and still, it snaked on, past where sun met earth and into the horizon itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Water,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought. He would buy water first and then move on. The road could not last forever. Nothing ever did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak approached a man, a man with skin bronzed by sun and eyes the shade of olive green. He was nesting pots of clay beneath his tarp, two boys by his side- his sons, perhaps. They tightened the string around each pot; liquid, within. Wine, Babak suspected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would it cost?” he asked the merchant, voice rasped from desert heat, “do you have water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man stared, shook his head. He pointed at the pots. Which one? He seemed to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water,” Babak said again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That head shook. He did not understand. But Babak would take anything, so long as it could soothe his throat. He stepped forward, pulling out his satchel of coins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A figure cut in front of him. Another man. He said something to the merchant and a wineskin was passed their way. Bony fingers pressed it into Babak’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down. Babak felt the swish and tipped the wineskin into his mouth. Once water flooded in- warmed by sun- he sensed his wits return. He capped the wineskin and licked the water from his lips, beads of liquid catching in his beard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he told the man, “how much did it cost?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That man held up a hand. His fingers shook; no need. It was then that Babak saw him clearly. Windswept robes covered him from head to toe, the fabric- once white- stained brown with desert sand. A straw hat sat atop his head, its wide brim above a thin gray veil. That veil cascaded like hair, coming to float at the edge of his waist. And across his shoulders, an oddly shaped lute lay strapped by string.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, like a ghost, he faded back into the crowd. Babak tugged the camel along, compelled to follow. When he again saw the flutter of sleeves, he grabbed a thin wrist, momentarily stunned by cold skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man turned, his free hand eager to strike. Babak stepped back and he caught that wrist as well, the veil unfurling in the wind. Under the hat, it was a face of alabaster, so white that Babak nearly let go. But he did not. And he saw-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was no face at all. He stared at a mask with the semblance of a nose and mouth, the cheeks powdered with pink and the edges of eye sockets dusted with red. He saw a flicker of brown in them, eyes in shadow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the man was free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d twisted away and was gone again. If the man did not wish for repayment, Babak would have left him be. But when he tied the wineskin to the camel’s saddle, Babak noticed a lightness about his waist. He looked down-- the satchel of coins was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vagrant!” he cried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That man could be anywhere now, another hat in the traders’ path. But Babak could not sleep easy unless he got the satchel back. He tethered the camel to the nearest caravan, its master busy haggling the price of rugs- and on, he ran. He pushed aside several travelers in his path, flipping shoulders when he caught flashes of straw brims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And perhaps by a grace of divine light, he saw the culprit looking through piles of silk. He could not mistake the arrogant gait, the billowing veil. Babak grabbed the lute on his back and twisted it off. The man tumbled with him and they hit the dust at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thief!” Babak said, holding the lute as he would a club. “Return what’s mine!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man climbed to his feet, skirt ruffled by moving limbs. He shook his head, palms held up, as if to say- I do not understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not feign ignorance,” Babak snarled, “I know you speak my tongue!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hands went down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give that back,” the thief said, perfect Persian from his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Babak almost obeyed, struck by the hymn of a voice, as rich and light as an artist’s strings. Then he remembered what that wretch had done. He held the lute closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Return what’s mine or I smash this where you stand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something like a snort passed behind the veil. The thief reached into the fold of his robes and twirling the threads of Babak’s satchel, tossed it forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak caught it in his palm, relieved that it was no less weightless than before. “Why buy my water if you planned to rob me from the start?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wished to pay me back, no?” The man spread his arms. “You could not leave me alone. So I taught you a lesson and took my payment. Sounds fair to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like nonsense,” Babak told him flatly. “Is this how you live? Robbing travelers along the silk road?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if the need arises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man stepped forward. He tapped the lute. “Now, you have something of mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak released his grip, dropping the instrument into that man’s waiting arms. And as he cradled the lute, Babak could not help saying, “You speak the Persian tongue well. Where did you learn?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man gestured in the air. “Here. Merchants from the west always pass through. They’re good company and when you’ve been on the road as long as I, it’s not so hard to pick up a word or two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against himself, Babak laughed. “I’d hardly say you picked up a ‘word or two.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had best return to the camel. Dusting his hands, he asked, “These merchants you speak of, how far can they travel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the way to the Chang’an if they’re so inclined.” Babak sensed the man watch him from behind that veil. “Why? Have you interest in trading in the capital?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m no businessman. I was hoping to settle there- I’d heard they welcomed foreigners.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man thought for a moment. He nodded. “You would not do badly there. There are plenty of men from the west. But learn the language of Tang and perhaps you would even do well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He strapped the lute to his back once more, and turning, said, “But why go through the effort? Take what you can from the silk road and go home, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d started walking then, and thinking him out of earshot, Babak confessed, “I have nothing left at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he returned to the camel, Babak found the man waiting there. He handed Babak the reins and again in that lulling voice, said, “I will teach you the capital’s tongue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Babak asked why, he shook his head. “You see, I am on my way west. I have nothing left in Tang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak did not ask more. He knew grief when it reached his ears. And he knew that man did as well. Now the road was all they had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is your name?” he inquired instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Song. Danping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak nodded. Then Danping turned and said, “What? Will you not say your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I once had a title.” He smiled. “Now I am only Babak. Who I am, my father’s name, it hardly matters now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Danping said, “I see.”</span>
</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <span>The silk road snaked through a land of wind and sand, and for a time when hours stopped moving and the days blended to one, Danping walked by his side. They camped in the distance, the merchants’ fires no more than blips in the dark. The masses were safe, Danping had said, but they would slow Babak down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By themselves, they would reach the capital sooner. But do not stray too far, he’d say, a hand on the blade by his waist, the desert was fraught with bandits and rogues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re a soldier,” Danping mused, “they will not find easy prey in you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Babak did not deny his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In their time together, Babak learned the lute was Danping’s prized </span>
  <em>
    <span>pipa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. At his request, Danping would pluck its strings, ethereal hums between his lips. He used to sing for the King of Tang. It was a high boast, but Babak did not doubt that tale-- it would certainly be a shame if Danping’s voice did not grace the ears of his emperor’s court.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at night, Danping’s song would lull him to a dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In those days, Babak often wondered where the dreams ended and dawn began. They took turns bartering for water and once- then twice, and three times more- they’d shared a canteen. Babak parched easily but Danping was always able to prattle on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took easily to the camel, running his fingers through its fur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you not mind her smell?” Babak once asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, Babak had no answer for. Danping had never shown his face. And when he spoke of the glories of Chang’an, he never spoke of what he did. And Babak did not wish to pry. It seemed that they had never existed before the silk road, shadows with no past and no future ahead. He did not dwell on the rope burns around Danping’s arms and Danping did not ask of the scar across his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their shoes left prints in the sand, soon brushed flat by desert winds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sha,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danping told him, sand. Babak often watched him draw in the sand, crafting pictures meant to be words. Then an hour or so later, he’d test Babak’s memory, and scoff when he failed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Babak chased him through the setting sun, Danping calling back, “Hurry, Babak! Hurry! Or you will never make it to the city in time! It’s over here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Babak caught him, he’d say, “Ha! You fool- you believed me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And each time, Babak would shove him into the sand. While he stomped off, Danping would adjust his hat and laugh. “Forgive me, Babak. I’m most fond of your tantrums.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, in these chases, Babak was sorely tired of Danping’s jokes. He fell into the sand beside him, and hands upon Danping’s shoulders, pinned him down. The hat had rolled off, its veil trailing with, and Babak could see a head of thin hair, ink against sand. Danping’s eyes were brown, but in the glint of evening firelight, they were nearly gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your eyes are green,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danping once told him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>like the leaves of wood. When I walk with you, I almost remember what a forest is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That bony chest rose and fell behind his robes. The bob of his throat rustled. And yet Babak could not read his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish to see you,” he whispered, “Danping, allow me this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sand swimming with breeze, Babak put a hand to the porcelain mask. He lifted it, plucking its strings aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no nose. It was papered skin and crossing veins, more a skull than face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you scared?” Danping asked, a mirthless grin spreading on his twisted lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Danping thought. Then he shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Babak started with his throat. He kissed the skin, cool against hot lips. And he dipped down, past collarbone and scar, yanking those robes open so he could touch his face to the hollow of Danping’s ribs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rolled in cold sand, dust in their mouths and each other on their lips. It was the first night of many, Danping arching beneath him and sometimes running his hands across Babak’s chest, tangling fingers in Babak’s hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Grow it out,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danping had said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>your locks are long and lovely. And tie it in a knot above your head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Return to the silk road,” Danping said, “and follow the path to Chang’an.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Come with me, Babak almost said. But he knew Danping would never turn back. So he nodded and tugged the camel on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danping pressed the pipa into Babak’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never taught you how to play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve watched you play long enough to learn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when the dream ended, Danping was gone. The camel was his one companion, and Babak walked on, the sand shifting beneath his boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danping had told him of a Sasanian apothecary. In Chang’an, Babak entered his employ and took the name Song. And if not for the old pipa, he would wonder if Song Danping had existed at all. He dreamt of the man in the desert, a bone-white mask, and dust-stained skirts. When he touched the straw hat to his own head, Babak imagined Danping looking through that same brim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He often wondered if Danping had gone west like he’d wanted, if he got to see Rome as he said he would. Or- more likely- as Danping himself had predicted, he was cut down by bandits along the way. If that happened, he supposed Danping would laugh. </span>
</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <span>They spoke of a Hu poet, a man from the west. His command of the capital’s language was impeccable and his penmanship a lovely thing to behold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ghost, I knew, paved the road in sand,</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Where the spirit moves, he stains my dreams,</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Golden eyes behind pipa strings,</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Your blood runs through earth,</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>And when I wake, I am still alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- The Silk Road, Song Bei (the poet, Babak)</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The Daroga of Mazandaran wandered through the grounds of </span>
  <span>Nijni-Novgorod</span>
  <span>. The chill had reached his bones and he had half a mind to purchase another fur coat and turn back the way he came. He could not find the tent that the trader had spoken so highly of and now he wondered if his majesty had simply been duped into a fruitless endeavor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was about to tell his man the same when a burst of fire caught his eye. The Daroga weaved his way through the crowd of coats, overcome with a brief sense of deja vu when he arrived at the front. Perhaps the fair reminded him of the bazaars in Tehran, but he could not shake the memory of desert heat and something more- and as soon as the thought entered, it passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Living Corpse stepped forward, black cloak swishing as he took his bow. He was a thin man, that much the Daroga could tell, and under his tall hat, there was a mask of black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The eyes were a bright yellow- much like a cat’s, and almost brilliant gold- and when they landed on the Daroga’s own, something froze in the magician’s gait. As if he too wondered where he had seen this man- and then, he seemed to think no more of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Daroga had never once laid eyes on the Living Corpse before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the show- an impressive feat of tricks and contraptions, to the Daroga’s chagrin, and an even more horrifying display of the Corpse’s face- the Persian pushed the doubts from his head and courage summoned, entered the magician’s tent.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go away,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> the magician said, voice a lovely mismatch with his covered face, followed by a string of words he could not catch- the Daroga’s Russian only went so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say,” he ventured, “French?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ah, my mother tongue.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“The show’s over,” the Living Corpse said in French, “if you wish to see the monster, you’d best be ready to pay your share of gold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no desire to see your face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He poked a bony finger in the Daroga’s chest, perhaps hoping to intimidate. But the Daroga did not move. He only scowled and squared his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am Mazandaran’s chief of police,” he said evenly, “I come to you on behalf of his majesty, the Shah-in-Shah of Persia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why should I believe you?” the magician huffed, effortlessly switching to Farsi. “You don’t look very impressive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had piqued the Daroga’s interest; the man spoke without mistake, only a trace of odd intonation at the end of each word, the sole sign of a man speaking beyond his native tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You speak the Persian tongue well. Where did you learn?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Living Corpse puffed his chest in pride. Ego tickled, he said, “Here and there. Merchants from the east always pass through. When you’ve been on the road as long as I, it’s not so hard to pick up a word or two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d hardly say you picked up a ‘word or two.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Golden eyes narrowed. “Flattery will not endear you to me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daroga.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Daroga was sure the opposite was true. From his waistband, the Daroga retrieved a bar of gold, solid, sturdy, and inscribed with his majesty’s name. “Take this as a token from the Shah. He is most impressed with your talents.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dropped the token into the magician’s hands. And he turned on his heels, hoping that man would take his bait. “I leave for Tehran today. Should you reconsider, I will be outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d barely stepped back into frosted grounds when the snow crunched beside his feet. Jittery, the magician appeared, nearly hopping in stride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When do you leave?” he asked, failing to cover the anticipation in his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when the Daroga looked into his eyes, he was again overcome with a memory lost. He’d met him once, but he never had. And the question spilled without much thought-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Song-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Erik.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And once more, that ghostly memory passed. The Daroga nodded, and two strangers left together in the Russian snow.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are more than welcome!</p><p>Hope this was fun to read! </p><p>Just some fun facts:<br/>* Song Danping was the phantom's name in the Chinese poto retellings, Song at Midnight and The Phantom Lover<br/>* Hu - a Tang dynasty moniker for foreigners, specifically Eurasian and European</p><p>I actually thought about doing a Phantom retelling set in the Tang Dynasty (and pulled a segment straight from that AU for this lol), but that'd be a very lengthy time-consuming borderline original fiction project. So this is a glimpse into my mind haha.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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